Theater of War: Act Three, Interlude
by TOW
Summary: Act Three, Interlude: What happened in the camp between Scene One and Scene Two.
1. Introduction

Act Three

Interlude

Introduction

Theater of War: Act Three – "I Have Played the Fool" – The First Book of Samuel – is set in the _Hogan's Heroes_' universe. It was originally published as a digest-sized zine in 1998. This is an amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. This copyright covers only original material and in no way intends to infringe upon the privileges of the holders of copyrights, trademarks or other legal rights for the _Hogan's Heroes_ universe.

Interlude is what happens in the camp between Scene One and Scene Two.


	2. Chapter 1

Act Three

Interlude

– One –

With narrowed eyes, Kommandant Wilhelm Klink looked at the five men who were entering his office. It had only been a few days since the fire, and he really hadn't expected to see Bürgermeister Rudolf Scheinfeld, Kurt Hausner, Police Chief Werner Krueger, Monsignor Jürgen Geisler and Doctor Ernst Bauer at the camp. A very curious Colonel Hogan brought up the rear.

Klink had come to know Doctor Bauer reasonably well. Bauer shared a love of medicine with a love for his patients, no matter who they were. He had not been actively involved in the resistance groups in Hammelburg, but he had turned a blind eye more than once when those groups crossed his path. And Klink knew of at least two instances when the doctor had sheltered injured people who had been sought by the Nazis.

The other men of Hammelburg were also extraordinary for the times they lived in. They were rare men of quiet courage and ideals.

Rudolf Scheinfeld, a plump genial man in his late forties, had long served Hammelburg. An astute, honest businessman, he had seen most of his fortune ruined when he refused to play by the rules set up by the Nazis, rules abetted by far too many men of business. And he had refused to play the political games as well. Which meant that, despite a long family history of Scheinfelds serving as Bürgermeisters, Rudolf Scheinfeld hadn't become the Bürgermeister until late last year when the aged, and clearly powerless, Bürgermeister died. Scheinfeld had been appointed as an interim Bürgermeister, pending elections to be held after the current crisis, that is the war, ended. Since Hammelburg had lost much of its influence and war industries, thanks to Hogan and the local underground, more powerful interests hadn't opposed Scheinfeld's appointment. The more powerful interests had abandoned the town long before the fire destroyed most of it.

Police Chief Werner Krueger. Just elevated Police Chief Werner Krueger. Unlike his politically appointed predecessor, Hans Strauss, Krueger, who had come up through the ranks, wasn't a Nazi. That little fact had kept the 57-year-old Krueger from becoming chief until now. But when the previous chief had had the misfortune of being one of the victims of the fire, Krueger had taken over. And Klink wouldn't have wanted to bet that Strauss's death had been just an unfortunate accident. While not as bad as others holding that position in other cities, Strauss had not been above using bribes and intimidation in the performance of his duties. And he had cooperated far too enthusiastically with the SS and Gestapo when it came to arresting those suspected of opposing the Nazis. No one would mourn Strauss. Or question the manner of his death. Least of all the man most probably responsible for it.

Monsignor Jürgen Geisler, pastor of the sole remaining church in town. Hammelburg had been an oddity in this part of Germany — a primarily Catholic enclave in predominantly Protestant northwestern Germany. Young Father Geisler had arrived in Hammelburg in 1930, fresh from a seminary. And he had stayed on after old Father Braun died a couple of years later. Geisler had been young and idealistic, but tempered with a realistic knowledge of what he could and couldn't accomplish in the country that was fast becoming Nazi Germany. He had trod a careful line, exhorting his parishioners to love and serve their fellow man. Yet he managed to avoid directly criticizing the Nazi masters who listened carefully to his sermons. A path that would surely have sent him to one of the concentration camps — camps already filled with thousands of priests, ministers and other religious who had crossed that line either deliberately or accidentally. Monsignor Geisler was no longer so young, and no longer idealistic. But age had also brought out a streak of covert daring. Taking the example of thousands of others to heart to do what he could to protect the victims of the Nazis' hate, the parish's old baptismal rolls had swelled when Father Geisler had found a number of errors committed by the late pastor. Father Braun had been a saintly man, but he had been prone to the forgetfulness and lethargy that affects many old people, and had kept less than accurate records of who had been baptized. In fact, it seemed to be a failing of several previous pastors as Father Geisler discovered when the Nazis instituted the Aryan laws. He had been forced to spend several sleepless nights reconstructing those old baptismal records that had been so sadly neglected over the past few generations. At least that was the official story, if anyone bothered to ask. But only one person had bothered to ask — the man standing next to Monsignor Geisler, Kurt Hausner, the head of the Town Council.

Kurt Hausner, like his life-long friend Rudolf Scheinfeld, also came from a family with a long history of service to Hammelburg. Hausner, really von Hausner, was the only remaining aristocrat left in the area. Others like the Baroness von Krimm(1), Field Marshall von Leiter(2) and General von Behler(3) had long since left Hammelburg. The Baroness's abandoned estate now served the town as its hospital, and the other estates had been appropriated to house some of the homeless citizens of Hammelburg. But Hausner, who had dropped the "von" from his name upon reaching his maturity, had stayed and continued to serve. Years ago, Hausner had, as did many aristocrats and ambitious men, joined the Nazi Party. The token ideals, the slogans, and the real grievances that Germany had had caught his then naive idealism. But those days and the naïveté had long disappeared. Hausner had retained his nominal membership in the party, using it to discreetly help the local resistance movement and others like Monsignor Geisler. He was fortunate enough to have an honorable name, enough money and the right acquaintances so that the real Nazis in town rarely questioned his word. Among the documents that Klink was certain had not been saved from the fire was the list of Nazi Party members in Hammelburg. Klink, the Stage, didn't care. He had his own list of the Nazis in town. And Hausner wasn't on it.

The amenities had been dispensed with and Klink gazed curiously at the five men sitting or standing in the now crowded office. An equally curious Colonel Robert Hogan leaned unobtrusively against the door.

Now, the five men of Hammelburg looked at each other as if wondering what in the world they were doing in the Kommandant's office, a place they had managed to stay away from in the years Klink had been at Stalag 13. But that was before the fire, back when they all privately saw the Kommandant as a bragging fool. Now . . .

"So, meine Herren," Klink asked after a short and uncomfortable silence, "what can I do for you?"

The quick glances again, then Hausner spoke, "We, that is Hammelburg needs your assistance, Herr Kommandant."

"If it is in my power," Klink said noncommittally.

"Herr Kommandant," the seated Geisler leaned closer to the desk, "conditions in Hammelburg are even worse than we had anticipated."

"Go on," Klink prompted as Geisler fell silent.

"Herr Kommandant." Doctor Bauer took a deep breath. "As you know, most of Hammelburg is gone. Homes, businesses, schools, the hospital, clinics. All the public buildings. What is left is primarily residential. Very few businesses. Most of the farms have survived, but this area has never been agricultural. It had been mining country once but — "

"Meine Herren," Klink cut in, "I am aware of the history of the area. I don't mean to be rude, but what does this have to do with me?"

Scheinfeld took a deep breath. "Hammelburg is dying, Herr Kommandant. Only a few hundred people remain. And unless something is done, most of those will leave as well."

"The problem is, Herr Kommandant," Geisler picked it up, "that we have no reserves of food to get our people through the winter. We can salvage shelter from what is left, but food is the most pressing problem."

Klink frowned. "I see the problem but — "

"We would like your help in procuring food, Herr Kommandant," Hausner said. "Right now, it appears that only the military has access to transportation and supplies."

"We are not begging, Herr Kommandant," Scheinfeld rushed in. "We can pay. We," a glance at Hausner, "have enough funds to do so. The problem is procuring the goods we need, not paying for them."

At the expense of whatever remained of their fortunes, Klink knew. These men were willing to make that sacrifice. However . . .

"I wish I could help you, meine Herren," Klink said soberly. "But I have no special access to food or other goods. Everything now comes directly from military stores. And everything is strictly rationed. The camp," Klink reminded them, "had been supplementing its supplies from merchants in Hammelburg; you know that."

"We had been hoping," Geisler whispered.

"Forgive me, meine Herren," Klink said with a glance at the police chief. "But there is an illegal source of supplies that has long been popular for many years. Why have you not gone there?"

"The black market," Krueger said heavily. "Of course, we considered it. But," a grimace twisted his face, "all the suppliers I, we knew about are gone. Their goods, if they salvaged any, are also gone."

"There is Düsseldorf," Hausner said with a scowl. "But I know what their prices were like in better times. We can afford to pay Hammelburg prices, but not Düsseldorf prices. Not when we need to feed hundreds of people."

Now Klink frowned. "All the suppliers are gone?"

Krueger nodded.

"But the fire didn't reach the Baumann mine."

It was Krueger's turn to frown. "The Baumann mine?"

"You cannot mean Helmut Baumann, Herr Kommandant," Geisler said with certainty. "Herr Baumann, while not known for his generosity — "

"Baumann is a skinflint," Hausner said bluntly. "But I know for a fact that he never had anything to do with the black market in Hammelburg."

"Not Hammelburg," Klink said. "Düsseldorf. Herr Baumann is one of the top three black market operators in Düsseldorf."

Krueger nearly choked. "Baumann? That self-righteous hypocrite! We had a meeting last night at the hotel to determine what our supplies were like. Baumann was — "

"Pleading that he barely had a loaf of black bread in his house!" The normally placid Geisler was livid.

"I suspect he was telling the truth about the black bread," Klink said wryly. "He simply didn't tell you about the white bread he has hidden away."

Krueger stood. "I think we should pay Herr Baumann a visit. Now."

The other men murmured their loud agreement and stood.

As did Klink. "I think we will accompany you, meine Herren. If you have no objections."

"None, Herr Kommandant," Hausner said.

"And I think we should take some of my men and a truck as well," Klink said.

Krueger nodded curtly. "An excellent suggestion, Herr Kommandant."

Klink pressed the intercom.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?" Hilda answered the buzzer.

"Have Sergeant Schultz get a truck from the motor pool along with half a dozen guards, Fraulein Hilda. We are going for a ride."

At the door, Hogan grinned widely.

...

A small convoy made its way over the hard packed road leading to the Baumann mine. Klink's staff car was in front, followed by the Hammelburg police car and the camp's truck. It was a trip made primarily in silence. Hogan had asked one question on the way, "How do you know about Baumann?" And received only a smile in return.

The convoy stopped in front of a shack that looked ready to fall down. A barn in even worse shape stood a few meters away. The rugged hillside behind the structures was dotted with half-buried holes and broken tools.

Hogan got out of the car and looked around. He'd never been in this part of the Hammelburg Township. "This is it?" he asked with disbelief in his voice.

A disbelief reflected on the faces of the men who got out of the second car. Men who looked askance at Klink.

"Herr Kommandant," Scheinfeld began uncomfortably.

"You! What are all of you doing on my property?" A short, grizzle-faced man in his early sixties came out of house.

Krueger glanced at Klink's impassive face and stepped forward. "We are here to talk to you, Herr Baumann. About the town's problems."

"We talked last night," Baumann said. "I can't help you."

"Kommandant Klink believes you can," Scheinfeld said in an appeasing voice.

"Klink?" Baumann looked at him contemptuously. "He manages to do a couple of things right during the fire, and now you're listening to him?" A short laugh. "You're even more of a fool than he is!"

"Why don't we go inside, Herr Baumann," Geisler suggested. "You'll be more comfortable."

"Why don't we stay right here," Baumann said. "What do you want?"

Hausner shot a quick glance at Klink, a glance tinged with uncertainty. "The Kommandant believes that you can help us with our problem." Hausner's eyes lit on Baumann. "He believes you have contacts with the black market."

Baumann stared at him. "The black market?! The fool is delusional. I've never been near the black market in Hammelburg — "

"Not Hammelburg," Klink said. "Düsseldorf."

Baumann's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Düsseldorf?" A curt laugh. "That explosion has affected your wits, Kommandant. I haven't been to Düsseldorf this winter. Don't have time to go visiting cities — "

"You were in Düsseldorf at least twice last month, Herr Baumann," Klink said in a soft voice.

Baumann stared at Klink with something akin to shock. "That's a lie."

Klink smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps. Or a mistake on your part. It doesn't matter. These gentlemen have a business proposition for you, Herr Baumann. I suggest you listen."

Baumann's temper returned; his face was florid as he turned back to the townspeople. "What proposition?" he spat.

"We wish to purchase food for the town — " Scheinfeld began.

"At Hammelburg prices," Klink said softly.

"At Hammelburg prices," Scheinfeld continued. "Enough food to tide us over until we can get other supplies."

Baumann stared at him and then started to laugh. Long and hard. "And where," he finally asked, "do you suggest I get this food?"

"From your," Scheinfeld floundered. "From your . . . " He shrugged, turning to Klink.

"Your hidden stores," Klink said.

"My hidden what?" Baumann began another peal of loud laughter. "Ja, my hidden stores. The stores I have stashed in the barn." He waved a negligent hand. "Or the house. Or — "

"Or the hidden cellar under the house," Klink said. "Or . . . " He smiled as Baumann's face lost color. "Do you really want my men to go looking for those stores, Herr Baumann? If we find them, how much do you think the town will pay for them?"

"Not one pfennig!" Krueger said angrily, annoyed that Baumann had operated under his nose and he didn't even know about it!

Baumann stared at Klink, loathing in his eyes. Then he shook himself and straightened, turning back to the townspeople. "Perhaps I might be of some help, meine Herren. You must forgive my caution. After all, you can't be too careful nowadays."

"Natürlich," Hausner said through clenched teeth. _The miserable, little . . . _

"You know what we need, Herr Baumann," Doctor Bauer said with barely concealed disdain. "We discussed it last night. Can you supply what we need?"

Baumann hesitated and nodded. "For a price." A toothy smile. "For a price, anything is available. Champagne, caviar."

"We are only interested in bread!" Bauer said. "And canned goods. Items our people need to live!"

"Natürlich, Herr Doktor," Baumann said smoothly. "Natürlich. Now, the price will be quite high, meine Herren."

"The price will be the normal price for such foodstuffs," Klink said evenly.

Baumann ignored him. "As I said, the price — "

"Will be the normal price," Krueger said, picking up on Klink's words.

"Meine Herren," Baumann said genially. "That is impossible. I have associates. And they have associates. It all costs money. Gold, in fact, for the quantity you require. You must understand. It will be very expensive."

"I see," Klink said evenly. Then, "Herr Baumann, you have a choice."

"A choice?"

Klink nodded. "A choice. Either you sell what the town requires at the normal price. Or . . . "

"Or?"

Klink looked at him unflinchingly. "You die."

Monsignor Geisler gulped audibly. "Entschuldigung," he murmured and walked back to the car.

A hard, dangerous look lit Baumann's eyes. "You dare to threaten me, Klink? Do you know who I am?"

"Oh, yes. Quite well. You are a petty, vindictive man who enjoys feeling superior to others. And one who has been preying on his countrymen for years. Now, it is time you paid."

"I have friends, Klink. Important friends. They will — "

"Ah, yes, your friends." A humorless smile. "Oberführer Theisen has been transferred to the front; he was rather indiscreet in an affair of the heart with a general's mistress. And Oberführer Folker is under investigation for some irregularities involving war supplies. They couldn't protect themselves, Baumann. You think they can protect you?"

Baumann stared at Klink with something like shock on his face. "There will be questions," he mumbled.

"In Nazi Germany?" Klink said softly. "Where thousands died in public view, and no one did anything? But if anyone does ask, I am certain that Herr Krueger will have no problem filing the proper charges and the proper paperwork. Perhaps, 'Shot while resisting arrest'."

"You cannot kill me. I have what you need." Baumann was now openly sweating.

"I think we will eventually find all of your stores. It might take a few days," Klink said. "But we will find them."

Baumann stared at Klink, fear in his eyes.

"Well, Baumann?"

The silence dragged on almost unbearably.

Finally, Baumann found his voice. "I . . . " He cleared his throat and turned back to the townspeople. "I will be happy to sell you what you need, meine Herren," he said in a hoarse voice.

"At the normal price," Hausner said tonelessly.

"At the normal price," Baumann echoed in a barely audible whisper.

"Well, now that that is settled," Klink said in his old Kommandant voice, "let's begin, shall we?"

"The cellar," Baumann said faintly.

Klink shook his head. "Nein. I believe the mine would have more of the supplies the town needs."

Baumann swallowed hard. "Natürlich, Herr Kommandant. The mine."

Klink gestured. "After you, Herr Baumann."

Baumann nodded and started toward the hillside, trailed by the others. Hogan, who had watched silently with folded arms, shook his head in silent admiration. Then he sauntered lazily after them.

...

Hogan was bored. For what seemed to be an interminable time, Baumann and the townspeople had been haggling over the price of the stuffs the town wanted, needed. Hogan was far more interested in seeing what else the mine held. From what he'd already seen, it held quite a bit — crates and boxes of food, medicines and other goods. None of them had quite believed it, especially the chagrinned police chief. Baumann had secreted enough supplies just in this cavern to outfit a small army. What else was in here?

Hogan picked up a spare lantern and slipped away. He walked further into the mine, past abandoned mine carts, stumbling over the remains of rust-eaten rails, past half-buried alcoves. He'd been ready to call a halt when he saw a timbered door where one had no business being. A door in a mine?

Hogan tried it. Locked. Well, the years with Newkirk had taught him a few tricks. The door proved surprisingly easy to open. Baumann was obviously relying on the much more elaborate security system at the entrance to the mine.

Hogan opened the door, lifted the lantern high, and stared . . .

Back in the main cavern, the wearying haggling was continuing. Only to be interrupted by a loud shout.

"Kommandant! Kommandant Klink!"

It was Hogan's voice. Surprised, Klink stepped back into the main tunnel. He couldn't see anything.

"Colonel Hogan?" Klink called. "Where are you?"

"Turn left and keep going! There's something here you should see."

Klink, flashlight in hand, went down the tunnel. The others followed, Krueger holding on tightly to a suddenly nervous Baumann. A few minutes later, they were at the door. Hogan was just inside, his lantern held high.

Klink turned his flashlight on the contents of the room. Even he couldn't hide his surprise. The cavern was filled with boxes very familiar to the Kommandant and Hogan. Red Cross boxes. Hundreds, thousands of Red Cross packages. Stolen Red Cross packages.

Klink's cold eyes went to Baumann, Baumann who was sweating profusely despite the chill. "Would you care to explain, Herr Baumann?"

A nervous smile. "They were sent here for safekeeping, Herr Kommandant. By Oberführer — "

"They were stolen!" Hogan said.

"Nein! I swear — "

"Don't bother, Baumann," Klink said. "Up until now, we have been extremely lenient with you. No longer." A look at the police chief. "Is there any place he can be locked up, Herr Krueger?"

"I will find a place, Herr Kommandant," Krueger said grimly. "I believe the von Behler estate has some exceptionally deep and secure wine cellars."

Klink nodded. "Gut. Schultz, take Herr Baumann out to Herr Krueger's car and lock him inside." His eyes met the large sergeant's. "He is not to get away. Verstehen Sie?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Schultz's beefy hand clamped down on Baumann's elbow painfully. "He is not going anywhere."

"Send Private Reinwald back to the camp in my car. He is to get the other truck, half a dozen guards and a work detail of prisoners. Ten or so. I want them here as soon as possible."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

"Herr Kommandant," Baumann began in an almost pleading voice. "There has been a slight misunderstanding. There is no need for all of this unpleasantness. To show you my goodwill, you," a glance at the silent townspeople, "may have anything — everything — at the price you first quoted. Surely, that is fair." He looked at one man, then the others. Their expressions were less than impressed, and less than willing to listen. "Herr Kommandant." He turned back to Klink.

"Baumann," there was an odd humor in Hogan's voice, "if I were you, I'd shut the hell up."

"An excellent suggestion, Colonel Hogan," Klink said. "I suggest you listen, Baumann. Get him out of here, Schultz."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Schultz dragged the extremely unhappy former black-marketer out of the cavern as Klink and the others turned back to the booty.

Hogan was staring at the unexpected bounty. "There's enough here to last us for months."

"Perhaps," Klink said.

Hogan glanced at him sharply. There was an oddly cautious note to Klink's voice. He opened his mouth . . .

"Later," Klink said softly.

Hogan shut his mouth.

"Can we really lock him up?" Monsignor Geisler asked suddenly. "It doesn't seem very . . . legal."

The others looked at him in surprise.

"Legal?" Krueger asked. "After all these years of Nazi rule, you ask about legalities?"

"I like to think we're better than the Nazis," Bauer said quietly.

"If it makes you happier with the decision, Herr Doktor," Klink said just as quietly, "the only way Baumann got these packages was to steal them. Or he bought them, knowing they were stolen. Under any form of law, he is guilty of theft. Theft from the military. Under martial law, he could be shot." Then an unexpected smile. "But I am not interested in shooting Herr Baumann, or keeping him imprisoned. I just want him out of the way until the war ends. Until he can do us no harm. Then Herr Krueger can release him."

Bauer and Geisler nodded their agreement, Geisler with obvious relief.

Scheinfeld sighed loudly. "It would be very unfair not to pay him anything."

Klink smiled. "That would be for you to decide, Herr Bürgermeister . But for these," he nodded toward the packages, "his life is more than enough payment. Now," he said more briskly, "we have work to do."

* * *

1 "My Favorite Prisoner"

2 "Hogan's Double Life"

3 "Operation Hannibal"


	3. Chapter 2

Act Three

Interlude

– Two –

They had more than enough work to do. It took some time, and several trips, for the prisoners' detail and the extra guards to get the Red Cross packages back to camp.

Hogan looked at the packages now filling one of the supply buildings. "We could give some of these to the town," he suggested.

Klink shook his head. "We'll need them. You know what the official supplies are like. And besides, with the additional prisoners we're going to be getting . . . "

Hogan grimaced. Klink had finally told him Burkhalter's good news for the day. More prisoners. Over a hundred — he didn't know how many over a hundred — in the next few days. Beginning now. Hogan looked at the truck pulling into the compound.

The newer prisoners were a different breed, Hogan noted. Some were still pilots and aircrews. But now, most were combat soldiers, rougher, coarser, definitely less clean than the prisoners they normally got. Rowdier, and insultingly disdainful of any and all Germans. While that disdain was natural among most of the prisoners, with these men, it was even worse. Their open contempt, even hatred, would have surprised Hogan in the past. Since he and Klink had become friends, it was more than annoying. Hogan was very glad that his behavior toward Klink had changed even before he knew who Klink was. It influenced the men who had been there awhile. And they in turn influenced the new men as well.

But once in awhile, the new men went too far. Way too far.

Klink glanced at Hogan; Hogan grimaced — the new prisoners were accompanied by SS troops.

Nine men were climbing down from the back of the truck. Three were flyers; the others, infantry. American infantry.

The combat soldiers were distinctly unhappy. Especially one. A big, brawny man with irregular features. Features of a man who had gotten into trouble more than once.

The SS captain smiled humorlessly at Klink. "Your prisoners, Herr Kommandant."

Klink took the papers from him and glanced at them. "They appear to be in order." He signed the papers and handed one back to the captain.

"Heil Hitler!" the captain shouted.

Klink raised a hand in farewell but said nothing. Klink had all but stopped using the words nowadays.

The truck and its accompanying patrol left the compound.

Klink glanced at the men. "Schultz!"

Schultz hurried over with a couple of men; Hogan trailed behind.

"More guests, Colonel Hogan," Klink said. "I am Colonel Wilhelm Klink, kommandant of Stalag Luft 13. This is Colonel Robert Hogan, the senior POW officer. Welcome to the camp, gentlemen. This will be your home for the duration of the war."

"Which won't be long, Kraut," a contemptuously loud whisper from one of the men.

Klink ignored the voice. He tended to ignore snide remarks now, relying on Hogan and his men to control the prisoners. A few comments often helped to relieve some of the fear and anxiety the incoming men had. The old Klink didn't ignore them; the old Klink didn't have an overcrowded camp to worry about either. Normally within a couple of days, after Hogan and his men checked out the new prisoners and talked to them, the new men merged into the camp population, grudgingly accepting their new, and hopefully temporary, lives.

"Sergeant Schultz will escort you men to the delousing station," Klink continued, ignoring the interruption. His eyes swept the mainly dirty group. "Once you are clean, he will process you in and inform you of the rules of the camp. I would suggest you learn them quickly and obey them. Colonel Hogan will assign you men to a barracks. I am certain that he will also inform you that no prisoner has ever successfully escaped from this camp. It is a record I intend to uphold."

Klink had walked up and down in front of the men as he talked. He finished up next to the battered-looking man.

A troublemaker, Hogan decided, noting the dangerous glint in the man's eye. His opinion was confirmed in seconds.

Klink had half-turned away from the new arrivals. The man spat at him, catching Klink on the side of his face. As Hogan and his men started in surprise, the man also lunged for Klink. Two of the guards managed to catch the prisoner's arms as he barreled into Klink and held him as he spouted obscenities at Klink.

Klink had been startled by the attack; in all these years, none of the prisoners had ever, save for the mad Martinelli, spit at him, let alone attacked him. And while the new Klink had forgiven a great deal, this he would not ignore. His handkerchief rose to his cheek, wiping away the spittle.

"Cooler, seven days, bread and water rations," Klink ordered curtly and turned away.

"Bastard!" The man spat at him again. And turned to Hogan. "Ain't you gonna do anything? He's abusing me."

Hogan's voice was cold. "I would have given you two weeks."

Even in the past, he wouldn't, couldn't, have allowed a prisoner to get away with this. Heckling, sometimes coarse remarks, had been part of the game. A game he was now ashamed to admit he had, if not encouraged, at least abetted. But not what had just happened. That broke the rules more than even he was willing to do. And even in the past, there were limits, and physical violence and spitting was something he wouldn't have put up with even back then. Especially now, he wouldn't put up with it. And the sooner these men realized it, the better.

The clearly unhappy prisoner, struggling with each step, was manhandled away by the guards. The others followed Schultz to the delousing station.

Hogan walked over to Klink as he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "I'm sor — "

Klink shook his head and waved away the apology. "How much trouble are they giving you?"

"A little," Hogan admitted. "But they're listening to reason. And if that doesn't work, they listen to orders."

Klink smiled briefly. "Good. Well, if Burkhalter's right, after the next batch of prisoners, we won't be getting any more guests."

"I would appreciate it."

A sigh. "So would I."

A salute, which Hogan returned, and Klink walked back to his office.

Later that evening, new guards arrived, Wehrmacht guards.

Klink's eyes swept the newest arrivals as Schultz took the roll. His eyes stayed on the one next to the end. When Schultz had finished, Klink walked before them, inspecting them. He stopped in front of the guard he had been watching. "Your name."

The guard saluted. "Private Gustav Hirschfeld, Herr Kommandant!"

"How old are you, Hirschfeld?"

Another salute. "Seventeen, Herr Kommandant!"

Klink's disbelieving eyes stayed on his face. "Seventeen?"

The salute faltered, the hand dropped as he stammered in a brave voice, "I will be seventeen, Herr Kommandant." He swallowed nervously under than cool gaze. "In ten months . . . "

Klink signed inwardly. "I see." And turned away. He could almost feel the relief that swept the boy. "Sergeant Schultz, take the new men to their quarters."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

He returned Schultz's salute as Hogan came over.

"They're getting younger," Hogan said.

Klink nodded; Hogan walked beside him. "I have nephews who are almost fifteen. When will they be forced into uniforms?"

"Can you do anything for them?" Hogan asked.

"I don't know," Klink admitted. "They are already working as laborers for the war effort." His eyes swept the hills around the camp. "Another crime of the war, the destruction of childhood. They should be in school, thinking about their futures. And girls. Not whether they may have to kill someone. But if they do get called up, I have some strings I can pull."

"And get them sent here?" Hogan asked.

"Yes. Though I am not certain this is the best place for them."

"Any others you have to worry about?" Hogan asked. He still didn't know too much about Klink's family.

Klink shook his head. "Dieter and Therese are fairly safe in Konstanz. Wolfgang is a chemist and has found a relatively secure niche. His wife used to be a teacher, now she works in the store. Their oldest are the nearly 15-year-old twins. They have one more son, Walther; fortunately, he is only ten. Franz is in the reserves, assigned to Leipzig. He, unlike Wolfgang, has been in combat, North Africa. He went home in 1942, wounded and ill from the heat. Since then, he has managed to stay in Leipzig. I suspect his father-in-law, who happened to be a general, had something to do with it."

"Ever think of asking him for a promotion?"

A faint smile. "I really don't want one, as you well know. Besides he provided this one."

Hogan glanced at him in surprise.

Another smile. "I started to tell you that(1); you didn't want to hear it."

"Sorry. Could he help now?"

A sad shake of his head. "He died a few months ago. Heart attack."

"Does Franz have any children?"

A nod. "A little girl, eight years old."

"Any other family?"

"Some assorted cousins I haven't seen in a long time. And Mama."

"How's she holding up?"

"Fine, all things considered. It is difficult for her. She takes care of the children and the house. Luise runs the store; it is too much for Mama. Norberta works in a factory."

"Not too easy for civilians, is it?"

Klink shook his head. "No. I had hoped they would go with Dieter and Therese, but Mama doesn't want to leave the house. It has been in her family for generations. I often wonder how long she will be able to stay there. And the others."

"Too dangerous?"

Klink nodded. "My sources indicate the Russians will be too close. I have no love for Stalin. And even less trust. If the Russians get too close, they will leave Leipzig, regardless of Mama's wishes." Klink changed the subject. "I'm going to lose more men."

"Who this time?"

"All the Luftwaffe personnel," Klink said to Hogan's surprise. "Save for Gruber, Schultz and Langenscheidt. I was able to get exemptions for them. For some reason, the general staff wants Luftwaffe personnel on the front; they'll be replaced by Wehrmacht guards."

"When?"

"The day after tomorrow."

Two days later, the remaining Luftwaffe guards, save for Captain Fritz Gruber, Sergeant Hans Schultz, and Corporal Karl Langenscheidt(2), were getting ready to leave. To be replaced by Wehrmacht soldiers. Soldiers. Well, that was the official description, Hogan thought as he looked at the incoming guards. Some were youngsters, not much older than Hirschfeld. Most were older, several much older in their sixties, Hogan guessed. Some were former clerks or reluctant draftees. But most were combat veterans. Wounded veterans. Hogan's eyes swept them. Two of the men had lost arms, one an arm and a leg. Several limped badly, a couple had eye patches. Others were scarred, one had been badly burned.

Hogan didn't envy Schultz's job right now. Or his for that matter. He'll have to talk to his officers and barracks' leaders about handling the new guards gingerly until they had a feel for them. He'll also have to —

"So, what do you think of our replacements, Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan turned to Captain Matthias Dingel, a pleasant-faced young man. Hogan shrugged noncommittally. "Leaving us, Captain?"

Dingel nodded and smiled thinly. "It appears that the generals think my efforts will make a difference to the war."

"I'm sorry," Hogan said. A flicker of surprise — he really was sorry.

Another thin smile. "So am I, Colonel." Dingel looked around the camp. "It has been . . . interesting being here. More so recently." His smile broadened. "Perhaps we could meet after the war and exchange stories, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan found himself grinning. "Perhaps we could."

Dingel's eyes were calm as they looked at Hogan. "I am certain the stories will be . . . enlightening. And totally unbelievable."

Another smile. "That definitely is the right word."

Dingel nodded and held out his hand. "Goodbye, Colonel Hogan. And good luck."

Hogan shook his hand. "Good luck to you as well, Captain."

"Thank you." A deep breath. "I think I will need it." His hand lifted in a salute that Hogan returned. "Auf Wiedersehen, Colonel Hogan."

"Auf Wiedersehen, Captain Dingel."

More changes. Corporal Karl Langenscheidt became Sergeant Karl Langenscheidt. And found himself with many of the responsibilities of the now departed Captain Dingel. Dingel had been the supply officer for the camp. But, as Langenscheidt discovered, many of the supplies had long since been depleted.

Even food was a problem. Luxuries were nonexistent. But so were many staples. Meat and real coffee were unattainable. Cheese, sugar, margarine, butter and other foods were rarely available. Meals for the guards had become a monotonous diet of potatoes, supplemented by watery vegetable-based soups, ersatz coffee and sawdust-based black bread. In the past, Klink had been able to buy produce and goods from Hammelburg and other places. The war and his decreasing budget had taken care of other sources; the fire had eliminated Hammelburg. The town even more desperately needed the food stocks they had found in Baumann's hidden stores, though the Town Council had voted to give a quarter of the supplies to the camp. But as Langenscheidt looked at the remaining supplies, he could only pray that the war would end before they all found themselves on starvation diets.

The prisoners, oddly enough, were in better shape. The official mess hall meals were just as monotonous and even more meager than the guards' meals. But the prisoners had their meals supplemented by their Red Cross packages(3). Klink had always kept an eagle eye on the Red Cross packages, making certain that the guards didn't steal the packages. But that alone wouldn't have been enough. In theory, each man in the camp received one package per week. And for the first few years of the camp's existence, the theory was the practice. But after the Allied invasion of Normandy, Klink, to Hogan's intense annoyance at the time, began carefully husbanding the packages. The camp for months after the invasion continued to receive its regular allotment of packages, and for months, the packages managed to keep pace with the camp's population. But Klink, anticipating future shortages, had doled out the packages far less generously than Hogan had liked. Hogan had, of course, complained when Klink grew more parsimonious with the packages. However, for a change, his complaints hadn't work; Klink had refused to relax his grip on the packages. Now, Hogan could only feel grateful that Klink hadn't acceded to his demands. It meant that, unlike most other POW camps, there were packages to hand out to the prisoners even as their numbers increased and supplies were disrupted. And the packages they had found in Baumann's mine only increased their relatively good fortune. At least for now.

Burkhalter had finally called with a count of the incoming prisoners. The number shocked not only Hogan but Klink as well, both of whom had hoped that the recent fire would keep more prisoners out of the camp.

Four hundred. They were getting four hundred men, most of them prisoners from evacuating camps.

Hogan stared bleakly across the already crowded compound. The timing couldn't have been worse. They had new guards to worry about, a ravaged town, dwindling supplies, and now four hundred more men to add to the already overcrowded camp. A stiff wind sent a chill through him and he shivered. For a moment he wondered what had possessed him to talk Klink into returning to the camp after their escape from Hochstetter. He had done it so they could continue their operation. But the bitter truth was that for all practical purposes their operation was over. The destruction of Hammelburg had taken care of their sabotage activities; there was nothing left to destroy. And as the war continued to come closer, even their primary mission helping escaping airmen seemed to be over. There were still airmen being shot down, but with the Allies raining bombs on nearly every city in Germany, nearly every road, the airmen were much better off in the POW camps than they were out in the countryside.

Well, Hogan thought as he turned his collar up against the cold, maybe it was for the best. Reality was intruding rather harshly on their lives now, and, like it or not, the men in this camp were his responsibility. A responsibility that grew more important with each passing day. And grew harder.

He walked toward the assembly hall where the officers and barracks' leaders were waiting for him. Waiting for him to pull off a miracle. Trouble was, he was finally out of them.

* * *

1 "Easy Come, Easy Go"

2 "Hold That Tiger"

3 The standard Red Cross package contained: 12 oz. corned beef, 12 oz. Spam, 6 oz. liver pâté, 8 oz. cheese, 1 lb. dried milk, 8 oz. coffee, 15 oz. raisins or prunes, 4 oz. powdered fruit drink, 8 oz. sugar, 8 oz. crackers, 8 oz. chocolate, 1 lb. margarine, 2 bars soap, 4 packs cigarettes and 5 books of matches. They could also include other foods such as canned fish and biscuits, special diets for men with specific dietary needs, and medicines. Lewis H. Carlson: _We Were Each Other's Prisoners. _


	4. Chapter 3

Act Three

Interlude

– Three –

The next day went better than Hogan or Klink had anticipated. Far better. They had gotten a reprieve. The new prisoners were coming in two installments, a day apart. The first and smaller group, about one hundred and twelve men, was coming in from various transit camps holding men who had recently been captured. The new prisoners, arriving in trucks, were in good shape, decently clothed, and in high spirits. They came carrying Red Cross packages and spare clothing, confident that the war would soon be over and that their stay in Stalag 13 would be a short one.

Klink, after looking at the new prisoners, all airmen, had left their processing up to Hogan and his men. The officers and some of the barracks leaders checked in the newcomers, trying to place them with men who had once been in the newcomers' squadrons. Those men would be responsible for the newcomers' indoctrination into the camp's routine and activities.

And it had gone off smoothly. Hogan, backed up by the other officers, had given his customary welcome speech to the new prisoners in the assembly hall. With an added twist. Unlike in the past, Hogan filled in the newcomers immediately on the camp's real workings. There were too many of them to be checked out individually; he would have to rely on the barracks' leaders to keep an eye on the newcomers. And rely on Klink as well. If there were a spy among the prisoners, they would find out fairly quickly. Neither Klink nor Hogan thought that a spy would be likely, not at this point in the war. And Klink had already decided that no prisoners would be transferred out of the camp. They were all here for the duration. If there were a spy among the prisoners, he wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone on the outside. And if he became a danger to them, well, accidents did happen.

Hogan looked at the men still in the assembly hall and smiled. Yeah, it was going pretty well. He left the hall whistling a cheerful tune.

But that had been yesterday. Today . . .

Hogan had known that Stalag 13 had been an exceptional camp in more ways than one. For a long time, he had given himself the credit for the way things had gone in the camp and the way he had twisted Klink around his finger. But since Klink had given him a lesson in how to run a prison camp in the beginning of the year, he found himself having to admit that a large part of the credit for the excellent conditions in the camp also had to go to the Kommandant. Hogan had some idea how much the kommandant of a camp affected the conditions in the camp; he'd talked to enough escaping prisoners from other camps. But he hadn't realized just how much better conditions were in Stalag 13, even with the reduced rations and the overcrowding.

Until he saw the three hundred and fifty-eight men who arrived the next morning.

Even now, staring at them, he couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it, and, as his eyes met Klink's across the compound, he knew he wasn't alone.

The men arrived from other camps that were being evacuated out of the way of the fighting. Not in trucks, not carrying spare clothing and Red Cross packages, not in good spirits.

They came on foot. They came filthy, lice-ridden, wearing clothes that were rags, in shoes that were falling apart.

They came unable to walk, carried on makeshift litters, carried by men who were scarcely able to walk themselves.

They came gaunt, hollow-eyed. Men who had been without decent rations in more months than they could remember, without any rations at all for several days.

They came ill, with diarrhea, dysentery, pneumonia.

They came dying, their emaciated bodies on carts pulled by other prisoners.

They came guarded by SS soldiers. And as Hogan looked at the smiling, sneering, immaculate SS major sitting in the car just outside the main gate, he knew he hated that man more than he'd ever hated anyone.

And he wasn't the only one. He could feel that hate radiating from the prisoners who were still outside the barracks. And, oddly, he could feel it from many of the guards as well. And from Klink.

Since yesterday had gone very well, Klink had intended to leave the processing of the new prisoners in Hogan's hands once again. That plan evaporated when Hilda called him out of his office, panic in her voice. A panic reinforced when Schultz burst into the office a second later.

Only a decade of concealing his real emotions had kept Klink from erupting into the rage, and hate, that he felt as he looked at the men straggling into the camp.

A rage and hate mirrored in the eyes of every prisoner in the compound. A rage and hate that could erupt all too easily unless he and Hogan clamped down, hard, on it.

And he had. They had.

Klink snapped an order to Hilda to call Hammelburg and get Doctor Bauer and all the medical supplies he could spare to the camp as soon as possible. Another order restricting those prisoners who were not processing the new men to their barracks. An order that had to be backed up by Hogan before it was obeyed. If it hadn't been obeyed . . .

Neither Hogan nor Klink wanted to consider what could have happened next.

But that was just the beginning. The incoming men were ill, exhausted, starving. Their bodies and clothing were thick with vermin, vermin that could infect the rest of the camp. Vermin that would spread disease among even healthy men. Fortunately, sanitary conditions at the camp had always been excellent, latrines numerous and well tended, hot water and soap plentiful.

And there was one more thing that Stalag Luft 13 had that set it apart from all other camps in Germany. A camp kommandant and a senior POW officer who not only cooperated in caring for the prisoners, but who also, it had to be reluctantly admitted, were friends. Even the men who'd been there only a short time soon realized that there was something unusual about the relationship the two men had. Most attributed it to the real workings of the camp, but whatever the reason, that relationship was the only thing now standing between the camp and disaster.

Hogan remembered that day as a series of scenes, beginning with Klink's flurry of orders. Orders to the chief medic, Sergeant Wilson(1), to round up his assistants and prepare for the sick men. Orders to Sergeants Rizzo and Doyle and the construction crews they had put together to convert the assembly hall into a makeshift infirmary for the sick; the real infirmary couldn't begin to house the incoming men. Orders to Sergeant Kinchloe to get men to tear open Red Cross packages and pull out the soaps and few medicines they contained. Orders to Corporal LeBeau to round up others to help in the mess hall, preparing soups and light meals for the malnourished newcomers. Orders to Sergeant Carter to search the camp for any spare clothing and blankets. Orders to Corporal Newkirk to round up all the tailors and cobblers in the camp and start working on clothing and footwear for the new men. Orders to Sergeant Baker to start getting those men who were able to walk into the delousing station as quickly as possible.

It was a nightmare for everyone, prisoners and guards alike. But Klink's orders, backed up by Hogan, managed to keep a good portion of the camp's population busy.

A human assembly line had been set up. Newcomers, those able to walk, straggled into the delousing station where they were stripped of all of their clothes and footwear — which were immediately dumped into boiling water — placed under hot showers, thoroughly scrubbed down by volunteers and shaved by other volunteers. They couldn't be inspected for pests, not yet, but hopefully the hot water and soap, the first some of them had seen in months, and the disinfectant that was liberally dumped on them, would kill most of the pests. Outside the station, shivering, naked men were given blankets and literally carried by more volunteers into the assembly hall, if they had health problems, or into the mess hall. In both halls, cups of hot soup, into which had been put as many vitamins as Kinch's group had been able to find, were given to the near starving men. There, in each hall, barracks' leaders processed them in as Klink and Hogan decided what to do with them.

The new prisoners couldn't be put into the general population. Even if they weren't sick, or had mild illnesses, the lice they still carried would spread throughout the camp. They would have to be segregated. There were now eighty buildings in the camp housing prisoners, as many as could fit into the overcrowded compound. Eighty buildings of various sizes housing an average of thirty men apiece. Which meant that they would need roughly ten buildings for the newcomers. Which meant that they would have to evict the occupants of those barracks and put them into others. Which meant a great deal of annoyance or outright antagonism among those being evicted. Which meant that Hogan and his officers had a nasty task of their own — how to keep the anger from boiling over into fighting.

Klink kept his guards away from the assembly line of prisoners and those who were helping them. That would, hopefully, keep the anger level down among the prisoners. Except for those who were helping with the ill newcomers, the guards kept to their normal routine as much as possible.

Doctor Bauer had arrived, along with his efficient nurse, Klara Arensberg. Within moments, Bauer, Klara and Sergeant Wilson had set up a triage center just outside the main gate of the camp. Of the three hundred men who showed up, over a third had medical problems of some sort. Diarrhea was the most common complaint, one that would hopefully be alleviated by a more rounded diet than the men had had in other camps. The milder cases were sent to the delousing station and the mess hall. The more severe cases would go to the converted assembly hall after their showers.

Dysentery was more dangerous, harder to treat, and could lead to death. Some cases were mild, being little more than a bad case of diarrhea; they were sent on to the delousing station as well. But twenty other prisoners were more serious, with fevers, vomiting, bloody foul-smelling discharges and pain. If they could replace the fluids the men were losing, it was possible that the men could survive. Or not. Replacing the fluids was not the only possible treatment, nor the best. But for most of the men, it was all they could do. Both Bauer and Wilson knew that certain sulfa drugs had been successful in treating the disease. But the camp had none, and Bauer had only a limited supply. He would try to get some from nearby hospitals, but given the conditions in most cities in Germany, he had little hope of getting any. So, that left Bauer with one course of treatment. Give the drugs to the more serious cases but only to those who were not too far-gone. For the rest, that only left replacing the fluid the men had lost, rest and prayer.

Klink was standing apart from the sick prisoners when Hogan joined him. "How is it going?" Klink asked.

"It could be worse," Hogan said. "Some of the men have volunteered to stay in the buildings we're evacuating. Some for less than altruistic reasons. But we're going to let them stay."

"I hope they know the risks."

Hogan managed a small smile. "Hopefully the worst risk is getting lice. We can live with that."

Klink nodded. "It looks like the assembly hall will be used as an infirmary for some time to come."

Hogan shrugged. "We can use the mess hall or the library for most camp meetings. But the classes(2) will have to find someplace else to meet."

"The cooler?"

Hogan smiled thinly. "I don't think they'd like that, Kommandant."

"I suppose not. Your men can use a couple of the smaller supply huts. I'll have Langenscheidt move the supplies to the cooler."

"That's generous of you, Kommandant."

Klink shrugged. "Practical is a better word. It keeps the prisoners occupied, less likely to cause trouble. All this is going to make it much harder for you to control them. Especially since most of your other activities have been curtailed."

Behind the two men, a couple of unnoticed prisoner volunteers raised their heads to look at Klink in surprise.

Doctor Bauer walked over.

"Thank you for coming, Herr Doktor," Klink said quietly.

Bauer shook his head. "I wish I could do more."

"How bad is it, Doctor?" Hogan asked.

"For most of the men, malnourishment is the most serious problem. And lice. But you know how to treat those."

Hogan and Klink nodded.

"About seventy have diarrhea in various degrees of severity. Another twenty have dysentery. They should be isolated from the other cases if possible."

"We will partition the assembly hall," Klink said. "That should help."

"Of those twenty, seven have severe cases. Two of them . . . " Bauer's head shook. "Fifteen men have pneumonia. Some are very ill; it will be a miracle if they recover. The pneumonia cases, Sergeant Wilson will take to the infirmary. He and his medics know what to do. Another dozen or so have assorted wounds that have not healed properly. Time, rest and proper care, which I am certain they will receive here, will help most of them. But two of them will require amputations. I would like to take those men to the clinic."

"What about the lice they carry?" Klink asked.

"I can keep them isolated." A twisted smile. "The Baroness's former manor has more than enough space. And it has a very efficient boiler and water heater," Bauer said. "We will manage. In fact, I will be able to send over a goodly supply of linen and bedding for your use."

"That is very generous, Herr Doktor."

A short laugh. "Thank the Baroness's former housekeeper, Kommandant. It appears that the Baroness neglected to pay her. In revenge, the housekeeper took off, leaving nearly all of the household supplies. Including enough linen to outfit a normal household for years. At least, it will be put to good use here."

Klink nodded. "When should we send the men to you?"

"If I could take them now?"

"If you wish."

"And I would like to take a couple of the prisoners to act as nurses. Frau Arensberg is needed for other duties."

"Of course. Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Wilson can decide who to send."

Hogan nodded and left to talk to Wilson.

"Schultz!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"

"Schultz, Doctor Bauer will be taking some of the prisoners to the clinic. Get one of the trucks ready. We will send Corporal Kaufmann; he is well used to being around amputees. And Private Reinwald."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Schultz left just as Monsignor Geisler arrived.

"Forgive me for being late, meine Herren," Geisler greeted.

Klink smiled. "Monsignor, I did not expect you."

Despite his age, Geisler blushed. "I wanted to help. If I can." His eyes swept the emaciated men who were walking or being carried into buildings. The blush paled.

"Seven have died, Monsignor," Klink said quietly. "More will die."

Geisler nodded grimly, and walked toward the prisoners.

"I will send over some food supplies tomorrow, Herr Doktor," Klink said. "And some Red Cross packages."

"Danke, Herr Kommandant."

Three guards, including the one-armed Kaufmann and the baby-faced Reinwald, came over and saluted.

"You men will accompany Doctor Bauer and help him in any way he requires," Klink said. "And you will remain at the clinic for as long as he needs your assistance."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Kaufmann said.

"Danke, Herr Kommandant," Bauer said with a slight bow. "Follow me, bitte."

Klink nodded a farewell and walked back to the gate. It was dark now, and most of the newcomers were in either the mess hall or the assembly hall. Only a few of the most seriously ill were still waiting to be taken inside. Bauer, the three guards and a couple of Wilson's medics were putting the two special patients into one of the trucks. Near them, Monsignor Geisler was administering last rites to the dead prisoners. A group of volunteers waited for him to finish. They would take the dead men to a temporary morgue and prepare them for a proper burial tomorrow. From several of the barracks, prisoners were moving their few belongings to other buildings. As expected, with a maximum of loud grumbling, but as far as Klink could tell, no real animosity.

Klink walked over to Barracks 2, Hogan's barracks. Inside, it was mild bedlam as Newkirk shouted orders.

"Harper, you're not making a uniform for the king. Speed it up!" Newkirk spotted Klink. "Evening, Kommandant," he said cheerfully.

Klink looked around the clutter — a score of men were fashioning pants and shirts of various sizes from old, worn-out uniforms, blankets and whatever fabric they could get their hands on. A couple of men sat in a corner, making wooden clogs from bits of wood.

"How is it going, Corporal?" Klink asked.

"It's going," Newkirk said less cheerfully. "It turns out a lot of the uniforms were salvageable. Sergeant Mannetti's going to keep the laundry going all night . . . " Klink looked at him. Newkirk grimaced. "I guess Colonel Hogan hasn't told you yet."

Klink smiled faintly. "Just as I haven't told him that we're forgetting about the lights-out tonight. You were saying?"

"Uh, yes, sir. Well, as I was saying, sir, Mannetti's going to keep the boys in the laundry all night. They'll salvage whatever they can and get them to us."

"You're going to work all night?"

"Pretty much. Us and the boys in Barracks 14. I figure that if we keep it up, most of the new boys will have something to wear tomorrow."

"Good. Is Colonel Hogan in?"

"Yes, sir. Just go on in."

Klink nodded and went over to Hogan's room. A glance back. Newkirk was back to bossing the others around. Klink was mildly amused, not so the others.

Hogan and the officers with him were finishing up when Klink walked into the room. Hogan nodded a greeting and dismissed his men. The officers exited noisily as Klink sat on a high stool at the table. Finally, it was quiet.

"Coffee?" Hogan asked.

Klink nodded wearily.

Hogan opened his door. "Carr," he asked the man on the nearest bunk, "bring over a couple of coffees."

"Coming right up, sir."

"Thanks." Hogan turned back to Klink. "You look a little beat. How's your shoulder?"

Klink flexed it experimentally. "I had forgotten about it. Too busy."

"Yeah."

The door opened and a black private brought in a wooden tray with a couple of cups, spoons, sugar and powdered milk on it.

"Thanks, Carr."

"Sir." The private looked at Klink for a moment before leaving.

"Here you go, Kommandant." Hogan handed Klink a cup.

Klink sniffed the aroma for a moment. "Real coffee." A sip. "I've almost forgotten what it tastes like."

"Can't do that. I'll send some over."

Klink shook his head. "I don't think your men will like it. Not anymore."

"Yeah. Well." Hogan sipped his own coffee. "How about a trade? Something from your cellar?"

Klink smiled faintly. "I've had some brandy taken over to the mess hall and the infirmary. Those men need something to get their blood moving again."

"Yeah." A thoughtful look at his cup. "I never appreciated, never knew, until those men showed up. I want to — "

"Don't!"

"What?"

"Don't thank me. I did nothing."

"Yes, you did," Hogan said quietly.

"No! I did nothing that shouldn't have been done by anyone, everyone, in my position."

"Maybe." Hogan looked at him soberly. "The point is you did it. They didn't."

"The point is, it doesn't matter," Klink said almost angrily.

"It does to me. It does to them. All right!" A hand rose to forestall Klink. "I'll stay quiet." He changed the subject. "About roll call — "

"It's been canceled. Also the lights-out. Same thing tomorrow. It will take a couple of days to get back to normal."

"Yeah, normal. Will it? Get back to normal, I mean?"

Klink sipped his coffee. "I don't know. I don't think so. Not back to the way it was."

"Sorry you came back?"

A faint smile. "I'm not sure yet. You?"

"Yeah, I am. I thought we could pick up where we left off. That nothing had really changed. That nothing would change. But it has. No town, no missions, too many prisoners."

"Too much responsibility?"

"Yeah, too much responsibility." A glance at Klink. "Did you know this would happen?"

"Specifically, no. Generally, I had a good idea. I knew more prisoners would come. And with the fighting coming closer . . . " He shrugged. "You know, some of it is your fault."

"_My_ fault?"

A faint smile. "Of course. You were too successful. It was inevitable that at some point the war industries would stop rebuilding. At least here."

Hogan sighed. "I guess. Well, at least that's one less thing to worry about. At least for me. Though I'm not sure about you."

Klink smiled and sipped his coffee.

A short silence, then Klink stood. "I should take a look at the mess hall."

Hogan grimaced. "For a change, the word 'mess' applies."

"I know." Klink finished his coffee. "Coming?"

Hogan nodded. "Might as well."

Hogan and Klink entered the mess hall through the kitchen entrance. LeBeau was there, ordering the mess hall crew — German and Allied — and the extra volunteers around. The diminutive Frenchman was in his element, despite the lack of variety in the fare. Huge pots of bubbling potato soup covered every burner and nearly every empty space.

LeBeau spotted them and waved a ladle in welcome. "Bon soir, mon Colonel, Kommandant." Then, "Fritz! Be careful with those potatoes! Handle them carefully; they're bruised enough as it is!"

"How is it going, Corporal?" Klink asked.

"Well, the fare is a little monotonous — potato soup and more potato soup," LeBeau said. "But it's filling and good. And I don't think the men are ready for anything else. They haven't eaten in days." LeBeau's voice took on a dangerous tone.

"We know," Hogan said as Klink walked over to the swinging doors leading to the dining area. Hogan and LeBeau followed him.

Unnoticed, they looked out over the hall. The mess hall could hold about three hundred men. In the past, it had taken about an hour or so to feed every prisoner in the camp. The hall had served two meals a day, breakfast and a late afternoon meal. Most prisoners had eaten those free meals and then had gone back to their own barracks for other meals made from the Red Cross packages or from food smuggled into the camp. In theory, the prisoners were forbidden to cook in the barracks. In reality, Klink ignored the rule unless Burkhalter or some other superior showed up. Klink still ignored the rule, but the extra food that used to come into the camp had disappeared. Now, they were down to official rations — which grew scarcer and less edible with each passing day — and the Red Cross packages. LeBeau had started a series of classes using the Red Cross packages, training cooks for each of the barracks. The food in the packages was less interesting than the food they'd smuggled in before, but it was nutritious and edible.

From the hall rose a noisy, and welcome, clamor. When the new prisoners had arrived this morning, they could barely walk or talk. Most of them could still barely walk, but they were talking in a variety of accents — British, French, American. Few of them had uniforms or bits of uniforms on. Most were still wrapped in the blankets they'd been given when they left the showers. Thirty of the camp's barracks leaders were sitting with the prisoners, one at each table. Also present were most of the officers.

"We might as well talk to them now," Hogan said.

"I'll let you do the talking. And be careful what you say."

Hogan nodded. These men had known pain and hatred for months, perhaps years. Fitting them into the camp was going to be difficult. Getting them to trust even more so.

Hogan and Klink walked into the hall. Slowly, the talking faded away as they were noticed. Replaced by an uneasy silence. Then slowly, grudgingly, the newcomers rose to their feet, surprising Hogan and the other longtime prisoners. But not Klink. He'd seen it before, especially in SS camps. Acknowledge the superior force. Not very willingly. But do it anyway and maybe you won't get killed.

Hogan suddenly realized what was happening. He wanted desperately to make light of it. And found he couldn't. Especially when he realized that under that false respect were fear and hate. Fear and hate directed at Klink.

And once again, he berated himself for coming back to the camp. No. For bringing Klink back to the camp. For thinking that it would be as it always had been.

But it wasn't. And never would be again. And he wanted more than anything to run out that door and keep on running. Trading insults with Hochstetter and the other monsters had been a piece of cake compared to facing these half-starved, distrustful men. And he was on their side! He was getting a taste of how it had been for Klink every time he faced the prisoners in the compound. In a camp where conditions had never been bad, had never been inhumane. Hogan found himself shaking as that overwhelming emotion coursed through him.

Klink was looking at him; Hogan could feel those calm eyes. It helped cut through the fear and hatred.

"They're waiting," Klink said quietly.

"I know." A deep breath. "I know."

Hogan turned to face the men, and he stepped away from Klink, attracting their attention.

"Hi." Hogan tried a smile. Which failed. Of course, it failed. These men had known a reality harsher than any he'd ever known. And to pretend otherwise was an insult to them and what they'd been through. A glance at Klink. He knew what to do. They both did. Hogan turned back to the sea of men.

"Please, sit down, all of you," Hogan said quietly. "You'll find we're not much for formality here at Stalag 13. None of us. Not the officers. Not the Kommandant." He nodded at Klink. "This is Kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink. A Luftwaffe officer. He has no ties to the Gestapo or the SS. And," his eyes met Klink's, "he hates the Gestapo and the SS as much as you do. Maybe even more."

Several jaws dropped among the listening officers and barracks' leaders. A few exchanged uneasy looks.

"If the SS or the Gestapo show up, Colonel Klink will be all politeness and smiles," Hogan continued. "It's called survival." His eyes swept the men in the hall. "Something you're all familiar with." A grim pleasure as he saw heads nodding agreement.

Hogan walked between the tables; their eyes followed him. "One of the things you might hear in camp is that Stalag 13 has a reputation. No one's ever escaped from here. And we'll talk about that later. It's also been called the toughest POW camp in Germany.

"That's a joke," he said in a flat voice. "Not a very funny one from where you're sitting. But it was good for a few laughs here. And it also hid the truth. One we'd rather the outside world didn't know.

"You'll find we're an unusual camp for a number of reasons. There has never been an instance here of a guard abusing a prisoner without the guard being disciplined or transferred. No one has ever been starved or beaten. No one has ever been worked to death or exhaustion. And there's never been a case of a guard killing a prisoner. Most of the men here, the ones who have been here for a while, have gotten used to being treated as human beings. And we've forgotten why. Looking at you men, we now know why. The reason is that man, Wilhelm Klink.

"I won't kid you. Life here is still hard. We're still in a prison. We're overcrowded, our food is rationed, and supplies are nearly impossible to get. But we're all in this together — Germans, Allies, and townspeople. All of us, just waiting and praying for the war to end. And it will. Until it does, we'll do the best that we can. All of us." He looked at the pale, thin faces staring at him. They were listening. And accepting what he said. Most of them. As for the rest, well, they would behave. He and his men would see to that.

"Now," a lighter voice, "there are still some rules in the camp. There have to be when there are so many people in one place. They're fairly simple. Captain Martin will fill you in. Captain, they're all yours."

"Thank you, Colonel." Martin stepped up to take Hogan's place.

Hogan walked back to Klink. The tall figure was unusually still, his eyes veiled. Then he looked at Hogan. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

A smile. A real one. "You're welcome, Kommandant." Then, to the utter astonishment of a couple of barracks' leaders who were standing nearby, he added, "Now, get out of here. You're not supposed to know why we've never had an escape."

Klink smiled and quietly slipped out of the hall.

* * *

1 "Operation Briefcase"

2 To combat boredom and to better themselves, most POW camps had classes in a wide variety of subjects. By the end of the war, American, Canadian and British colleges and universities had granted credit to a number of POW courses. David A. Foy: _For You the War Is Over_


	5. Chapter 4

Act Three

Interlude

– Four –

The next day, there was a funeral for eight dead prisoners — one had died during the night. Nearly the entire camp turned out, prisoners and Germans. There was an honor guard of forty prisoners, newcomers and Hogan's men, and four Germans, led by Klink. Monsignor Geisler had presided over the burial of the men in the field across from the back gate.

Over the next few days, the newcomers lost their gaunt, hollow-eyed looks, and were slowly absorbed into the camp. The lice had spread, as had been pretty much inevitable, to a few more barracks. But Hogan and Klink's stringent cleanliness policies contained the pests before they threatened to become an epidemic. Both men knew it was more than just an annoying pest problem. Those disgusting little bugs spread not just themselves but also diseases, like typhus, to hitherto uninfected men. Diseases that would kill.

Doctor Bauer came daily to check on the patients. Four more men died, but that was all. The surviving pneumonia and dysentery patients were still far too weak. They might have to spend the rest of the war in the infirmary, but they would live. A few days later, the amputees returned from the clinic. For now, they would also live in the infirmary.

Hogan and Captain Witton walked around the compound. It was another cloudy and windy day, with a threat of snow to come. But quite a few of the prisoners were out, just to get away from the overcrowded barracks. One hardy group was playing a game of soccer near the front gate. Included in the group were some of the newcomers, wearing the makeshift uniforms that Newkirk and his helpers had sewn. Over at the delousing station, the prisoners from one of the infected barracks were in line. From the other end, naked and shivering men were being taken to the laundry where freshly cleaned clothing was waiting for them. At the infected barracks, other men were busy cleaning and disinfecting every possible place where the lice might live.

A private hurried over and handed Hogan a few sheets of paper. "Here you go, sir," said a British voice. "Hot off the press."

It was the latest edition of the camp's weekly paper(1). Hogan glanced at it and handed the paper to Witton. Hogan already knew what was in it. Like everything else that went on in the camp, he had the final okay on it. Most of the paper dealt with the fire and their influx of prisoners. But there was one rather unusual item in this edition — an article about Klink. An article that acknowledged not only what Klink had done during the fire but also what he had done for the camp in the years he'd been kommandant. Hogan had almost vetoed the article; he knew how Klink was going to feel about it. Then he decided not to. It was time the camp finally began noticing what kind of a man Klink really was.

Hogan and Witton continued their walk. Other prisoners were entering the mess hall; they were on KP duty this week and would be helping with the afternoon meal. In a former supply hut, a French class was just letting out. Other men waited outside to begin an accounting class run by a bespectacled CPA-cum-supply sergeant. And the library was getting more than its usual crowd since Klink had appropriated several dozen books, many banned by the Nazis, from Baumann's stash. In the nearby gymnasium, several men were working with some of the weakened new prisoners, helping them regain their strength.

Other men were on work details. Some men were shoring up a spot on the hillside that had tumbled down, partly blocking the road. Another group was clearing the road. One of the camp's trucks, driven by Schultz, was leaving with a group of fifteen prisoners. They were on their way to the old coalmine that had been supplementing their fuel supply. That in addition to the groups of prisoners, and guards, who had been out earlier in the day cutting wood for fuel.

And for another construction project. Sergeants Rizzo and Doyle had come up with a plan to build second stories onto a couple of the sturdier barracks. Klink had stared at them in disbelief when the two had made their suggestion, and Hogan had felt exactly the same way. But Rizzo and Doyle had been very confident about the idea, so Klink had agreed to it — after muttering something about skyscraper barracks in a voice reminiscent of the old Kommandant.

The real Wilhelm Klink continued to emerge. For the guards, it was less disconcerting; nearly all of them were new and hadn't known the old Kommandant. Few of the guards were fit for other duties. They were children or wounded combat veterans or men otherwise unfit for combat. Yet rarely had the camp operated as well in the past as it did now. Odd. It was as if Klink were trying to instill pride in the soldiers, trying to blunt the sting of the defeat that everyone knew was coming. For the few men who weren't new, they did their duty and obeyed their orders. If they didn't like the changes in the camp or its kommandant, they had the sense to keep their mouths shut.

As for the POWs, they were beginning to accord Klink the respect due him as an officer. And it was a real respect, not the phony obeisance they had shown earlier. Hogan was glad. Wilhelm Klink had gone unsung for so long that it was nice to see him winning some praise. And their attitude, as well as Klink's behavior toward the new prisoners, influenced the newer men.

It was also a bit disconcerting for the prisoners. Not the new ones. The new Klink was quite a bit different from the commandants they'd known before. But then the camp was rather different too. The new prisoners accepted Klink because they hadn't seen his prior persona.

But for the older prisoners, the hundreds who had been at the camp for several years, the new Klink still took a bit of getting used to. The old Klink had to be continually fooled, continually lied to, continually tricked, and continually fawned over. Not only by Hogan, but, to some extent, by the rest of the camp as well. Nearly everyone in the camp had, at one time or another, been involved in some scheme or another that required getting around Klink. But the new Klink wasn't easy to trick, or easy to lie to. And, to the prisoners' consternation, he seemed to have a good idea of what went on in the camp.

Hogan's missions had been pretty much curtailed, thanks to the heavier fighting, the continual Allied bombings of cities and military targets, the fire and the new prisoners. But there were still a couple of things they continued to do, like printing counterfeit marks and circulating them out of the area via the Underground. One group of men had gotten the shock of their lives when Klink unexpectedly walked into their barracks and found them with hundreds of fake marks on the table. Schultz, who had accompanied Klink, looked away.

But Klink didn't. He picked up one of the marks and examined it closely.

"Not bad," Klink finally said to the prisoners' astonishment. "I must say you men are certainly turning into skilled artists. A trade for after the war?" He looked pointedly at Corporal Zimmerman who had been in charge of the group.

Zimmerman gulped audibly and managed to croak, "Yes, sir."

"Very good," Klink said. "Carry on."

And he had left, followed by Schultz. Leaving behind a group of flabbergasted men. And a story that soon spread throughout the camp.

Hogan had been secretly amused when he heard it. Though the men who were on the receiving end of his tongue-lashing would never have believed it. Hogan didn't care that Klink had walked in, but he did care that the men's security had been so lax. It could just as easily have been Gruber or a guard who had discovered their artistry. And that would have caused headaches for everyone, including Klink.

That had been the only potentially threatening incident. And Hogan intended to keep it that way. But there were still other hints to the real Wilhelm Klink: Hogan's and Klink's easier relationship, a relationship that some were starting to openly call a friendship, Klink's actions during the fire, his behavior after the fire and with the new prisoners. Not to mention a few less than guarded remarks made by Hogan or Klink when others were around.

All of which had started some lively discussions in the camp's barracks. One group felt that Klink was just starting to notice things and had decided that it was in his best interests to ignore them. Another far smaller group was starting to think that Klink had always noticed things and had decided long ago to ignore them. However, most of the prisoners seemed to have decided that Klink, old or new, wasn't any of their business. If Hogan was acting more friendly toward Klink, so what? Or if Klink was more competent than he used to be, so what? As long as no one got into trouble, and the prisoners' needs were taken care of, Klink was, as he had always been, Hogan's problem. Which was as it should be.

Hogan and Witton's circuit of the camp had taken them back to the front gate.

"Colonel! Colonel Hogan!" Kinch called, walking toward them.

Hogan left Witton, walking over to Kinch. "What's up?"

"Trouble, Colonel," Kinch said in a low voice. "We found a British agent in the tunnels."

Trouble. Hogan was beginning to hate that word. He followed Kinch into Barracks 2.

* * *

1 Many POW camps had their own newspapers. They were used for camp events, announcements, classifieds, reviews, etc., much like "real" newspapers. They also gave fairly accurate news about the war. One camp paper managed to scoop the New York papers on the invasion of Normandy. Among their sources of information were radios that the prisoners built or otherwise acquired. Most POW camps had a radio or two that they managed, in very ingenious ways, to keep out of German hands. David A. Foy: _For You the War Is Over_


	6. Chapter 5

Act Three

Interlude

– Twelve –

Hogan looked soberly at the man on the cot. The camp medic, Sergeant Frank Wilson, had already looked at the injured man and had shaken his head sadly as he left.

The man stirred. "Colonel?" he said in a barely audible voice.

Hogan knelt beside the cot. "Yes, sir?"

"I understand you can get a message to the Stage."

Hogan hid his surprise. "We can try."

"I," the man coughed, "I would like to see him."

"I'll try," Hogan promised. "You just rest."

Hogan walked into Klink's office after a perfunctory knock. Klink was a little surprised at his grimness.

Hogan leaned over the desk, talking quietly. "There's a man in the tunnel. He wants to see the Stage." Hogan's eyes met Klink's. "I think he should."

Klink nodded after a moment. "I'll meet you in the tunnel."

...

Klink, still in uniform, walked toward them. Hogan held a dark sweater in his hand. Klink took off his jacket and slipped into the sweater. From the pocket, he pulled a mask. It also went on.

The Stage glanced at the man on the cot and visibly started. He walked slowly over to the cot. To Hogan's surprise, he pulled off the mask.

Klink knelt beside the cot. The man's pained eyes turned to him. "Hello, Mark," Klink said quietly.

"Hello, old man," the English voice said faintly. "A long way from Switzerland, isn't it?"

"Very," Klink said softly, his hand resting on the Englishman's.

"Rotten luck, getting this." Mark smiled thinly. "Especially here. But everyone's luck has to run out some time. I am glad yours hasn't."

"It almost did, once or twice," Klink said as he lifted up the bloodied bandage. A flicker of emotion in his eyes as he saw the dreadful wound.

"Yes," Mark said. "When the message was sent a few weeks ago, I thought you'd bought it. Satisfy my curiosity, old man. How did you get away?"

Klink nodded toward Hogan who stood a few feet away from them. "Colonel Hogan got me out."

"So you finally told him."

"No." Klink managed a faint smile. "He guessed."

"I told you he was bright," Mark said weakly to Hogan's surprise.

"Yes, you did," Klink agreed. "But you forgot to mention a few other things."

A faint smile. "Wouldn't be the same, old man, if I told you everything."

Then Mark coughed, spitting up blood as Klink held his head gently.

"How is the Baroness?" Mark finally asked in a low voice.

"I am told she is well."

"And how is she?" Mark asked in a voice too low for Hogan to hear.

A softness in Klink's eyes. "Fine, the last I heard."

"You hang on to that one, old man," Mark said weakly. "She's a rare one."

"I know, Mark, I know," Klink said softly.

A spasm crossed the Englishman's face. "I had a pouch with me. Has some interesting things on troop movements and the like in it. Make certain it gets to the proper people in Dusseldorf, will you?"

"You have my word."

A fleeting smile. "And you always keep your word. You always have. Rather boring of you to be so dependable."

"I like being boring."

The smile became a grimace. "Sorry, old man. Don't mean to be a bother."

"Just rest, Mark. Can I get you anything?"

A shake of his head. "I'm afraid even the Stage can't find me a new set of insides." He groaned slightly.

As Klink watched, Mark's eyes closed and he lay still. Asleep or unconscious, Klink wasn't sure.

Klink stood and walked back to Hogan. "I assume he's seen Sergeant Wilson."

Hogan nodded. "I've thought about taking him to Doctor Bauer."

Klink shook his head sadly. "It's too late for that." A hard glance at the pouch in the corner. "He must have dragged that thing for miles. I hope it was worth it. It has to get to Düsseldorf."

"We'll get it there," Hogan promised.

"Thank you. Call your normal contact in London, but use your emergency code. Tell them that Colonel Mark Richmond is badly injured and left a pouch in your keeping. Use the code word, M. Rodin. They'll let you know where it goes." He shook himself. "I have to get back upstairs. Try to keep him comfortable; I'll be back later."

Hogan nodded as Klink turned back down the tunnel.

It was night when Klink went back into the tunnel. Supposedly the Kommandant was in his quarters, preparing for bed. Schultz had orders to keep an eye out in case the Kommandant was needed. As an added precaution, Hogan had his men watching and listening as well. Some of his men. LeBeau and Newkirk had slipped away with the mystery pouch right after roll call.

Mark's eyes opened as Klink knelt beside him. "Quiet upstairs?"

A nod; Klink's hand rested lightly on Mark's.

"Colonel Hogan has been kind enough to fill me in on the past few months," Mark said. "You've had quite a time of it."

"Colonel Hogan exaggerates notoriously," Klink said with a faint smile.

Mark managed a laugh. "I doubt it."

A cough choked him, blood again being spit up. This time, pain tore through him. His hand gripped Klink's cruelly.

The pain eased slightly; Klink wiped the sweat off Mark's brow.

"That was a nasty one," Mark whispered hoarsely. "Sorry, old man."

"Try to rest, Mark," Klink said softly.

"Rest? Soon that's all I'll be doing, eh?" A hint of a smile. "I've wondered what I'd say to you when we met again, Wilhelm. Now, I can't think of anything to say. Except, thank you."

Klink shook his head. "No, thank you. You believed in me when you had no reason to. Without your support, I would have failed."

"I guess we're even then," Mark said. "We both gave it our best shot." Another spasm crossed his face.

"Try to rest, Mark," Klink said quietly.

A nod. "Don't go away, will you?"

Klink shook his head. "I'll be right here."

...

It was the dead of night when Wilhelm Klink rose to his feet, scarcely aware of his stiff muscles, a deep sadness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Hogan whispered as Klink reached him.

Klink nodded and glanced back at the still man on the cot. "London has to be told."

Hogan nodded and led the way to the radio room.

Klink wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to Baker. "Use this frequency."

Baker glanced at it and adjusted the radio.

Hogan waited patiently as the Stage quietly informed his London contact that Colonel Mark Richmond had died.

Klink broke the connection after a few minutes. At a nod from Hogan, Baker left the two men alone.

Klink sat tiredly at the table, taking the cup Hogan handed him.

"Mark was my first English contact," Klink said soberly after taking a sip of the coffee. "Back when most of the English were still deluding themselves about Hitler. His help was invaluable in those early years. Because of him, we received arms, money, anything we needed. If it was humanly possible, Mark got them for us."

"He must have believed in you a great deal," Hogan said.

"Back then, he had no reason to. I'm glad I was able to justify his faith in me." He stared at the coffee in his cup. "I'm just sorry it had to end this way." Klink sighed and looked around. "Can he be buried down here?"

Hogan nodded. "Unfortunately, he's not the only one down here."

Klink nodded and drank the rest of his coffee.

...

Klink presided over the burial.

Odd, Hogan thought, German, English, American, French, the prayers were pretty much the same. So many similarities and still men fought.

Klink closed with a poem, earning a surprised look from Newkirk as he recited from memory:

"'If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

"'And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given

Her sights and sounds dreams happy as her day

And laughter, learnt of friends and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.'(1)"

There was a long silence after Klink's low voice faded away.

Then Newkirk said in a husky voice, "Thank you, sir."

Klink nodded, his eyes on the grave. "Every time we met, I would always remember that poem by Brooke," Klink said softly. "It seemed to fit him so." He turned away from the grave.

"Sir."

Newkirk's voice stopped him. Klink half-turned toward the Englishman.

"Sir." Newkirk's tone was uncharacteristically humble. "Sir, I never had the guts before, but I want to apologize to you for everything — "

Klink shook his head. "You don't have — "

"Yes, sir," Newkirk interrupted him, "I do. The truth is, I was the worst of the lot. I resented . . . No, more . . . I hated it when Colonel Hogan began treating you differently. And, I'm sorry to say, I wished you harm because of it. I had no call to act like that. None. When you were playing your part, you never did anything to warrant that kind of treatment. I just want to say that I'm sorry for everything."

Klink nodded.

"As long as we're being honest," LeBeau said soberly, his eyes on Klink. "I, too, wish to apologize. If Peter was the worst, then I was the second worst. I am sorry as well, mon Kommandant."

"While we're at it — " Carter started.

Klink smiled faintly, soberly. "Apologies accepted, gentlemen." His eyes met each of theirs. "And thank you."

After another glance at the grave, he turned and walked down the tunnel.

"He's quite a man," Newkirk said.

Hogan smiled and followed Klink out.

* * *

1 Rupert Brooke: "The Soldier"


End file.
